


Fear, Loathing and Wrestling in Las Vegas

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Ruth hates Vegas. Debbie's trying to make the best of it. And Sam's making too much of it. Now GLOW is under threat from a competitor. How far can they go to save the show?





	1. Heavy Weekend

“Are you okay?”

Even she would admit it’s a stupid question. He’s shivering and sweating in his seat, clearly feverish.

“I – uh – I went out with Ray and Mikey over the weekend. Guess I caught the flu.”

“Then you should go back to bed,” she says, radiating concern. A nod to the stage, where Debbie is making notes on a clipboard. “We can handle blocking the Bad Girls segment. You go get some rest and then we’ll show you what we’ve got tomorrow. Assuming, you know, that you’re feeling better by then.”

He shakes his head; winces. “No. I’ll be fine.”

She frowns. “But… You don’t want to give it to everyone else—”

“Ruth.” Bloodshot eyes, boring into her. “Stop. Fussing. Go get ready.”

She sighs. “At least make sure you drink plenty of water—”

“Jesus _Christ_. What are you? My mother?”

“Alright, I’m going, I’m going!”

She beats a retreat, shaking her head at his stubbornness; over to Debbie and her clipboard.

“Hey Ruth. Good weekend?” There’s still an anxious tightness to the way she says it. It stays the happy _yes_ in Ruth’s mouth, turning it into something more measured.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was… nice.”

Debbie half smiles at that. “Nice?”

“Uh-huh. We went for dinner at this old Italian place.”

“Well, that does sound… nice.”

And there’s a part of her that misses their old rhyme and routine, where Debbie would have cracked open that _nice_ and they’d have picked over together the idiosyncrasies she’s uncovering in consistent, charming Russell. The _is-this-weird?_ and _what-do-you-think-about?_ discussions that help to put what’s happening into some sort of context. Sheila tries her best, but its clear her relationships operate under a _radically_ different framework to Ruth’s, and she’s missing the history that makes everything just flow _—_

But part of that history, for now, for always, is going to include betrayal. Maybe it doesn’t sting as much as it used to, in the wake of ankle-snapping drama, but it still sits like a stone in the mouth, stoppering their conversation.

“What about you?” Ruth asks breathily, heading for safer ground.

“Oh, I took Randy to the park and he… _bit_ another child.”

“Really!?”

“Yes. Like some sort of feral monster. Sheila would have been impressed.”

“What do you even do about that?”

“I have… no fucking clue. But after listening to Tony’s mother wail about the marks for forty minutes I was pretty tempted to start biting myself.”

Ruth snorts a laugh. “I’m sure it’s just a phase.”

“Well, lets hope so. Otherwise I’m going to have to start sending him to day-care in a muzzle.” She sighs. “Anyway, back to my other set of problems. Do you have _any_ clue how to read a focus chart?”

Ruth shakes her head at the monochromic swirls on the clipboard. “Uh, pass,” she says. “But Sam can probably—”

“Ugh, no, he’s worse than fucking useless this morning.”

“Well, you know, I think he’s got the flu... What?”

Debbie’s knowing look, half-amused and half-frustrated at Ruth’s naivety, curtails her defence. “The flu? Ruth, he’s coming down from a weekend sky-high on coke.”

“I dunno. He seems pretty sick.”

“Trust me, by the time we’re in costume he’ll have sloped off to the bathroom and come back _magically_ cured.”

“Yeah,” she hears herself say, forcing herself not to glance back at him, all alone in the cavernous space they’ve got to sell-out in the none-too-distant future. “Maybe.”

* * *

She can’t help but try to test Debbie’s theory, finding him later over the donuts and coffee that comprise their laughable craft services.

“Hey,” she smiles, flexing her fingers in awkward greeting. “You feeling… better?”

“I told you I’ll be fine,” he retorts, through a mouthful of dough. Still thoroughly miserable looking; left eyelid drooping sleepily and what looks horribly like blood crusted on his nostril.

“Oh, you, um, have something—” she says, pointing.

He touches a hand to his nose and sighs at what sees, pulling out a bloodstained tissue to dab away the damage. “Thanks.”

“Heavy weekend?” she angles, going for broke.

He merely shakes his head at her lack of subtly. “What do you _want_ Ruth?”

“Nothing! Nothing. Just, you know, concerned.”

“Uh-huh. How was your weekend? How’s Russell?” He says the name like an accusation.

“Fine. He’s fine. Working on _Good as Gold_.”

“Oh, great,” he says, in tones of sing-song sarcasm. She gives him a black look for that and he sighs, indicating a truce. “Are you busy tonight?”

“I was going to do some—” she starts, but his exasperated expression makes her stop and offer the succinct summary instead. “No.”

“There’s a thing at the _Riviera._ I could do with a second pair of ears in the room.”

She swallows, suddenly dry-mouthed. “Isn’t Bash or—or Debbie—?”

“It’s creative types, not suits.”

“Well, you know, Debbie’s also creative—”

“Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands. “You can invite her too, if that’s what you want. I don’t care. Just meet me in the lobby at six, alright?”

“Alright,” she agrees, smiling happy.  

* * *

Debbie opens her door under Ruth’s knock. “Oh,” she says, taking in her outfit and frowning confused. “Is it a… costume thing?”

“Um, no,” Ruth manages, running a self-conscious hand down her black sweater and jeans. “I – I just thought—Well, when Sam said it was creative types I thought I should…” But there isn’t an end to that sentence. She’s put on a costume, she realises, ready to play a part.

“Well, it’s, uh, it’s very Audrey Hepburn.” Debbie's lips are pulled tight over her teeth, as she tries to spin the awkward moment around. “Shall we?”

“Sure.”

She follows Debbie down to the lobby, cursing inwardly for not thinking to ask the obvious question of _what are you wearing?_ before they set out. Of course, it’s not a question Sam ever has to consider. He’s waiting for them in his standard uniform of jeans, jacket, shirt and a scowl. At least he’s managed a shave and brushed his hair. He gives Ruth an odd sort of look but appears to think better of passing comment on her Beatnik attire as they step outside. The sky at sunset is an artist’s palette of grey and gold.  It’s still shirt-sleeve warm; she’s sweating slightly by the time they reach the _Riviera_.

“So,” Sam says, “the rumour is that Terry Flynn’s people are going to be here.”

“Oh shit,” Debbie replies, as if the name is one they all recognise.

“Yup.”

“Sorry,” Ruth cuts in. “Why do we care about this Flynn guy?”

“He’s a property magnate. Supposedly he wants to take the Strip in a new direction. Like, a more family friendly kind of thing—” Debbie explains.

“—which of course is a great fit for GLOW,” Sam adds.

Ruth raises her eyebrows. “This place? Family friendly?”

“I know, I know.” Sam waves his hand dismissively. “But he’s got money, and he’s looking for new acts.”

“O-kay.” Ruth is still sceptical. “So, you want us to talk up the show?” 

“Yeah, but you know, subtly. This thing tonight is a showcase of new artwork Flynn’s purchased. It’s not a pitch meeting; it’s supposed to be classy.”

There is a long moment while they all digest this.

“Fuck,” says Debbie softly.


	2. Tortured Genius

“You know,” Sam says, “bringing you here to mingle doesn’t really work if you go and hide by yourself...”

She lets out a breath, shoulders slumping, but doesn’t turn around. His shoes click across the tiled floor and he comes to stand next to her, looking up at the impressionist portrait of a woman with her parasol.

“It’s a Monet, right?”

“Yeah.” Out of the corner of her eye she sees him shrug. “What, you’re not impressed?”

He pulls a face, waving his hand at the painting. “It’s just all so superficial and fucking summer’s day.”

She turns to look at him, mildly horrified at his casual dismissal of an artist of such cultural importance. Maybe that was his plan all along. “Seriously? Monet’s work is too … happy for you?”

“Eh, I prefer van Gogh. I went and saw _The Starry Night_ in New York when I was a kid—”

“Mm, figures you’d pick the tortured genius over the family man.”

“Alright, alright.” He folds his arms. “You wanna talk about why you’re hiding in here?”

“I’m – I’m not hiding,” she says, too quickly. As if there’s another explanation for being all alone in the corridor, while the clink of glasses and laughter echo from the other room. “Anyway, you should probably get back in there to mingle. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he says, accepting the dismissal. “As long as you aren’t trapped with some sleazebag dickhead...” He says it smiling, meaning well, but it still stings.

She finds she is looking at her shoes, humiliation pinking her cheeks. “You don’t have to look after me, Sam.”

“Oh, come on—”

“I mean it! It’s – it’s patronising. And anyway, if anyone needs chaperoning in their off time it’s _you._ ”

She intends it as a joke, that’s all. But his eyes are narrowed now, and cold. “What the fuck does that mean?”

_Nothing_ , is what she should answer. Back down and walk away. “Pretending to be ill with the flu,” she hears her mouth saying instead. “When you were just… hungover.”

He blinks; a flinch like she’s thrown cold water on him. “I never asked for you to fuss over me like some fucking nursemaid,” he snarls. “I told you I’d be fine and I am. Don’t fucking lecture me.”

Something, somewhere, snaps. “ _Jesus_ , Sam. You treat this like it’s all one long lost-weekend. When _some_ of us are actually trying to put a show together—”

“Some of us? What, like you and Debbie? Your bosom pal, who you work so well with that you’re hiding from her at a fucking party? Or is all this just because you can’t take her husband home with you this time?"

Ringing silence stretches between them, as if he has smashed a glass on the black and white tiles of the gallery floor, rather than just their friendship. If life was a film she’d probably slap him about now.

Instead she nods sadly. “Right. I mean, that’s what it’s always going to come down to, isn’t it? Ruth the home-wrecker.”

“Look,” he starts, knowing he’s gone too far. “Will you just—?”

“No,” she says softly, turning on her heel; walking away from him.

“Ruth, wait. Goddammit. _Ruth_ —!”

She ignores him, all the way out of the casino and into velvet night. Maybe she’ll catch a plane. She could be back in LA in a few hours; back to Russell who treats her like she’s an actual decent human being, making her feel so _happy_ and so— and so—

_Scared_.  

Because she’s _not_ , when you get down to the brass tack basics of it all. Part of her can’t help but fear Russell’s sweet, uncomplicated liking of her stems from that basic misunderstanding. Once he finds the real Ruth everything will twist and fly away—

“Will you _please_ slow the fuck down?” Sam, breathless and agitated, following after her.

“I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

“I know. I know. Look, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.” He always says the word like it’s an end to the matter, rather than the beginning of an actual apology.

“I don’t care! I’m so _sick_ of being stuck inside the worst decision I ever made. Maybe it’s time to just… to…”

She can’t quite bring herself to say the word, but Sam can. “To quit?”

“Yeah!” It’s almost a relief to finally admit it to herself. “I mean, you were right. I hate it here. I really _really_ hate it. Everyone just… looks at me like I’m a piece of meat, and no one listens to anything I have to say, and I just feel _so_ small. All of the time.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding to his feet. “Yeah, I get it—”

“No, you _don’t_!” She’s shouting now, half-hysterical. Drawing stares from the passers-by and she doesn’t care. “You walked off that bus and fit right in. You and Debbie, you – you drink the right drinks and know the right people! And no one ever says anything to you about the hangovers, or the nosebleeds, because it’s just the way things are out here. And I don’t want to be that kind of person. I’m _so_ tired of trying so hard to be someone I’m just… _not_.”

He opens his mouth to argue the point, closes it again. Thinking, for a change. “I don’t want you to be someone you’re not,” he says eventually.  

“What?”  

“Look. I invited you to this party tonight because I knew you’d have an opinion on the fucking waterlilies. That you could talk to Terry Flynn on his level about bullshit like colour and form. _You’re_ the one who asked Debbie along to be the centre of attention.” 

“Because she’s a producer,” she snaps back, disquieted at his cut straight to the heart of the matter. “It’s her job to be here too.”

“Why? We’re not the fucking Von Trapp family. We can network independently.” He shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great for the show that she’s holding court in there. Debbie knows how to play the game. Better than you, and better than me, or she wouldn’t have made herself a fucking producer in the first place. But if you don’t want to play by those rules you have to change the board—”

“Oh, right, right. Because that’s so easy to do.”

“Of course it’s not fucking easy! But you must have _known_ it wasn’t going to be easy when you came out from Hickville, Indiana in the first place.”

“It was Omaha—”

“Oh, who gives a shit, Ruth? My point is you stuck it out for ten years. You could have gone back with your tail between your legs any time you liked. But you didn’t. Why?”

“Because!” she snaps, throwing her hands open to the sky. She knows the real answer, but the words are hard to speak aloud. Her frown finds its reflection on his scowling face, and her mouth seems to moving on without her. “Because I know I’m _good_. Because I can tell these stories, give voices to these characters that no one else can. If I’m just given the chance to not be judged on the size of my ass, or whether the director likes my face, or … or because I’m not _blonde_.”

She stops, breathing hard like she’s been running. The smallest twitch of a smile plays across his face, as they stare at one another. “Yeah,” he says. “You can.”  

She lets out a sigh, looking away. “Are you pep talking me now?”

He shrugs. “If that’s what it takes. I don’t want to quit yet. I owe too many people money.”

“Why would _you_ have to quit?” she says, screwing up her face incredulous. “You _love_ Vegas. It’s like Disneyland for you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Oh, come on. You’re out practically every night with Ray and Mikey.”

“Exactly. It’s not like I’m running around with Francis Ford Coppola. I’m a filmmaker directing a floor-show where there are no fucking cameras. You think _you_ feel out of place? Give me a break.”

“Then why are you still here?” she demands, hands on hips. “You could have made yourself an executive producer like Ray, if it was just about the money.”

He scowls at her, but she’s never been intimidated by his temper. “Because I still have things I want to say too, you know? Stories I want to tell. I just…I want people to listen to me.”

“Other than the fourteen women you order around every day?” she says, unable to hold back on that particular piece of sarcasm.

“Ruth, I once had _fifty_ fucking people hanging on my every word,” he replies sadly. “It’s not a hole I’m going to fill. I know that much.”   

“Right.” She feels curiously flat in the face of their bared souls, but she doesn’t want to get on a plane anymore.

“Don’t quit, alright?”

“I’m… not going to.”

“Good. It’ll get better. We’ll get through it.”

“Right. And… maybe stop half-killing yourself on the weekends.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing his nose absently. “It’s just a tough habit to break. Especially here.”

 She raises her eyebrows at him. “You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. I’m sure if you put your mind to it—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gives her a sideways look. “I guess now’s a bad time to ask if you want to go and get a drink?”

“No,” she says, firmly. “I don’t. And neither should you. Go home, Sam.”

He sighs, but nods acquiescence. “Walk me back?”

“I dunno. I’m still kind of mad at you,” she says, falling into step alongside him anyway.

“Oh, that’s normal,” he replies. “I have that effect on most women...”


	3. The Fury

Debbie is sitting on the corner of the ring when she arrives for rehearsal the next morning; balanced on the ropes as she lights her cigarette. For a second Ruth hangs in the doorway, the moment so perfectly cinematic she doesn’t want to step inside and break the scene. Smoke curls as Debbie exhales, her far-away expression inscrutable. Like a Classical statue bought to life.

“Hey,” Ruth smiles, slipping into the darkened theatre. “You’re here early.”

Debbie turns, and Ruth takes an instinctive step backwards, such is her expression of wrath. _Artemis_ , supplies Ruth’s brain. That’s the deity she’s thinking of. The huntress. Advancing on the small fluffy creature that is Ruth’s inevitable role in all this.    

“What the actual _fuck_ Ruth?”

“Debbie, what –? I don’t–”

“You disappeared in the middle of that cesspool! Do you have _any_ idea how long I spent looking for you?”

“Oh. Oh, God. I—I didn’t think—”

“Oh, of course you didn’t _think_! Otherwise you might have considered how fucking difficult it was going to be for me to get away from those… sweaty octopus!”   

Ruth wrings her own hands. _Octopodes_ , prompts her hateful brain. “It just seemed like—” she tries.

“What? Like I was _enjoying_ myself?” Debbie’s voice rises but it doesn’t crack. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry!” She doesn’t know what else she can say. Her brain shuttles back in time, to Sam’s non-apology on the sidewalk, circling the similarities. “I was being selfish,” she tries. “I didn’t realise.”   

Debbie nods, her mask of anger slipping slightly. Grief catches in her throat when she speaks again. “What the fuck happened to us, Ruth? You know? We used to be so _good_ at having each other’s back. I hoped with you being assistant director it would all just…” She makes a face, trying to form the shape of something indescribable with her hands, but Ruth already understands.

“I know. I know.”

She finds she can’t look up from the floor, from the scuffed pieces of tape that mark their positions when everything is scripted. The only time things seem to make sense between them, anymore.

“And I mean, God knows what happened to Sam,” Debbie continues. “I assume he’s conducting a personal re-enactment of _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ …”

Ruth catches her eye, finding her smiling nervous. Offering Sam up as a point of mutual dissatisfaction they can both build a bridge toward, until they find one another again. Just as _he_ did with Debbie, the evening previous. For the first time the similarity between them strikes Ruth; twin tidal waves she’s desperately trying to outswim.

“He, uh, he walked me home,” she croaks, knowing the only thing worse than telling the truth right now would be to play them off against each other. Taking the moral high ground has never felt worse.  

And Debbie doesn’t say anything. Presumably she’s somewhere beyond fury now, in the eye of her personal hurricane of rage. She simply swallows her smile, nodding at Ruth with a curiously dead-eyed expression, and walks out of the room.

* * *

“Hey,” Sam says, looking up from his typewriter to find Debbie in the doorway. “You want something?” Judging from her expression, there are good odds her answer might be tear him limb-from-limb.

“You disappeared,” she says. Perfectly level, if a bit flat.

“Yeah. Didn’t feel well.” He really has no idea why his instinctive response to her smouldering anger is to fan the flames, but there it is.

A muscle tightens in her jaw. “Well, I thought you’d like to know I spoke to Terry.”

“Good.” He flips his portfolio open, picking up a pencil. “What’d he say?”

“He wants to come and check out the show tomorrow. With Franco.”

“Great. Uh, just one question: who the fuck is Franco?”   

“Franco Fo? I assumed you knew him already.”   

He puts down the pencil. “The Italian director working at _Circus Circus_?” He’s been trying to get an introduction since they arrived in Vegas, but even the Sicilian connection hasn’t worked for him.

“Yeah, uh, that’s him.” And she knows as well as he does that if Flynn and Fo decide to make a move on GLOW, his directorship has all the life expectancy of a turkey at Thanksgiving. “So,” she says delicately, as if she hasn’t just thrown him to the wolves. “Do you want to tell Bash and Ruth about it, or should I?”

* * *

Ruth is stretching with Sheila when Debbie descends from the lighting box, oddly serene. Her friend’s gaze flicks back and forth between the two of them. “Are you guys fighting again?” she asks shrewdly.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Ruth admits. “I did something hurtful, and I think Debbie needs a bit of time to forgive me.” An optimistic take, admittedly, but stranger things have happened.

“She doesn’t seem angry,” Sheila observes.

“No…” It is somewhat _odd_ —

They are interrupted by a crashing sound from the box, almost as if someone has just put their fist through an electric typewriter. Adrenaline propels Ruth instantly onto her feet as self-preservation instincts root her to the spot.

Sam open his door. Even from here she can see his hand is bloody; cold fury radiating from every line on his face. He storms out of the fire-exit at the top of the stairs, metal slamming noisily behind him.    

“Oh fuck,” says Sheila quietly.

And Ruth’s eyes find Debbie, quietly working with a medicine ball on the other side of the room, her face utterly, utterly blank.


	4. First Aid

There’s still half a bottle of bourbon on his desk. Hard to unscrew the cap left-handed, but he manages and takes a swig. It’s not the good stuff but at least it’s a _start_.

His hand is a problem. It doesn’t hurt, not yet at least, but blood has soaked into the cuff of his shirt already and his knuckles are a mess. He takes the bourbon into the bathroom, and another deep gulp for himself, before he pours a measure over his wounds.

It stings, sharp enough to make him swear, but there’s an odd _satisfaction_ to it—

_Knock-knock._

“What?” he demands, as he wrenches open the door. Expecting Ruth, come to try and make amends. Or maybe Debbie herself if she _really_ wants to twist the knife.

“Hi,” says Arthie, looking awkward. Holding the first-aid kit in front of her like a kid with her lunch pail. “Ruth said you might need patching up.”  She takes in his sweaty, manic state. “Are you… okay?”

He sighs, shaking his head, and lets her into the room. “I cut my hand,” he says, daring her to say different. Part of him is still spoiling for a fight, any fight; but it’s hard to find one with Arthie.

She merely nods in response, not here for the drama. Puts the first-aid tin down on the table before taking his hand carefully to inspect the damage. “It’s deep,” she says, frowning. “You might need stitches—”

“No.”

“Okay.” A sniff. “Did you… pour bourbon on this?”

“I thought it would, you know, sterilise it.”

She can’t really hide the look of horror. “That must have hurt.”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t just wash it with… water?”

“Oh. No.” On reflection, that might have been the more sensible approach.

She’s almost finished dressing the wound, layers of gauze and bandage wrapped around his hand, when Ruth appears in the open doorway. “Oh – you found – good.”

He rolls his eyes. As ever, she’s subtle as a brick. “What do _you_ want?”

“Nothing!” She inches inside, flustered. “I just wondered—that is, I was just thinking—”

Arthie shuts the tin-lid of the first aid kit with a snap, making them both flinch. “Keep it clean and dry,” she says.

“Right.”

She heads for the door. Turning at the last second, an expression on her face like she’s about to do something she knows she’ll regret. “Is the… is the show in trouble?” Ruth’s anxious eyes are also on his face; body tense like she’s waiting for a blow. 

“No,” he says with a sigh. “The show’s fine. There’s a potential investor coming to see tomorrow.” He rubs at his eye with the index finger of his good hand. “You can tell the others. I want a cast meeting at five.”

Arthie nods. “Yes, boss.” A phrase she’s picked up from Yolanda. Not that he minds.

“And thanks,” he says as she goes, “for the patching.”

Ruth is looking at him expectantly. “An investor?”

“Flynn. Apparently he’s coming to see us. With Franco Fo.”

“The _Circus Circus_ director?! Sam, that’s amazing!”

“Is it?”

She frowns, confused. “ _Yes_. Why else did we go to that stupid party if not to get Flynn here?”

“Ok, Flynn, fine. Fine. But Fo?”

“He’s an established Vegas floorshow director,” she says, nonplussed. “Makes sense he’d come to see what we have. Maybe offer some advice; give us some guidance—”

“—take my job,” he finishes.

Realisation finally dawns. “Oh. That’s what you’re… worried about?” Ever diplomatic.

“Yeah! I mean, I’m no theatre kid. My work’s always been on camera.”

“So? C’mon, Sam! Where’s that hands-over-everything spirit?”

“It’s different—”

“It’s _not_ —”

“It is, Ruth! …It is.”

She recoils slightly, surprised by his vehemence.  “ _Why_?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. The words are surprisingly difficult to say, even to Ruth. “Because this is all I have left.”

She nods, eyes fluttering closed briefly at the admission; face downcast. But she’s still fundamentally _Ruth_ , her shoulders don’t stay slumped for long. “Look, there’s no need to think that Flynn wants to replace us with Fo.”

He screws up his face. “Us?”

“Did you forget I’m assistant director now?” she deadpans.

“If you’d _let_ me for five minutes, sure,” he fires back. “No, I just meant – you’ll still be the star of the show—”

“ _A_ star,” she corrects.

“Mm.” He puts his head on one side. “Whatever. It’s not like it’s all over for you, is the point I’m making.”

“Well, I think you’re being too pessimistic. But if you do want Flynn to see you as a safe pair of hands, you probably need to leave the bourbon bottle here and go do some directing.”

He clenches his jaw, but she’s right; she’s always fucking right. And smiling at him now, in that gentle teasing way she has, which always seems to rose tint his world.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go put together a demo.”

* * *

He’s collected all the pieces of plastic that pin-wheeled around the room and tried his best at one handed repair. It’s time to accept this is probably the end for his type-writer.

He makes a noise somewhere between and sigh and a groan. In a long list of petulant, stupid acts committed in a fit of rage or misery, this is one of the high rankers. His hand is throbbing agony now, pain pulsing hot, but mostly it’s the shame. He’s not a violent man; not really. Well, not unless someone starts a fight; he’s never been afraid of finishing one. Still, he’d like to think he’s better than this—

“Can we talk?”

Debbie, in the doorway. Christ alone knows how long she’s been standing there. “Sure,” he says. Curt, clipped.

She steps inside. “I think the demo is good,” she says. Maybe it’s a peace offering. Who the fuck knows.

“Worried I’d tank it to save my job?”

“No,” she says. “You’re not that petty.”

He makes a so-so kind of movement with his head. “I dunno…” A sigh. He scrapes the broken type-writer keys into the bin with his good hand. “You know how you want to play it tomorrow?”

She nods. “You should give them the set tour with Bash.”

“No—”

“This Franco guy’s Italian too, right? And I already talked to Flynn—”

“I’ve been trying to talk to Franco for weeks. I don’t think the Italian connection means shit. You should do the set tour with Bash. I’ll work with the Bad Girls on character.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, my charm is legendary, but of the two of us you’re probably more winsome. When you want to be.” Squinting at her from under beetling brows. “Also, Ruth said I should probably apologise.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Mm,” she manages. “Do you even know what for?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry we left you to deal with Flynn and co by yourself. It was rude, even if you did turn it into a business opportunity.”

Immaculate eyebrows rise toward her hairline. “That almost sounded—”

“Don’t push your luck.” He struggles to extract his cigarettes with his off-hand, until eventually she takes pity on him and pulls two from the carton. “You’re welcome,” he growls, lighting his own first and then throwing the zippo over.

“You know, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she says, around her cigarette. “Fo’s probably just… Uh…”

“Uh-huh.” He lets her twist for a few more seconds and then shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out tomrrow.” He looks out from the box, down onto their darkened set, and shakes his head. “For better or worse.”


	5. The Other Shoe

The barman puts down the bourbon, four glasses in a row. They stare at the drinks.

“Thoughts?” says Sam.

“I think it went well,” Bash hazards. “Flynn seemed… very positive about GLOW.”

“Debbie?”

She doesn’t meet Sam’s eye. “I don’t know. He was measured. And Fo was—”

“—quiet,” fills in Ruth.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “he barely said two words the whole time he was in there.”

They stare at the drinks some more.

“I guess we just… wait?” Ruth suggests.

“Not much else we _can_ do,” Bash says, nodding his agreement.

Sam sighs. “Yup.”

As one they drain the glasses.

* * *

His knuckles are a healing scab by the time the other shoe drops.

He’s sitting at the casino bar, watching Tuesday evening patrons in the mirror when Debbie steps out of the elevator. Wearing a peach skirt suit and a somewhat incongruous hat. For an uncomfortable moment he is reminded strongly of his mother, dressed up for another secretarial interview that inevitably led nowhere. He puts down his glass and hurries after her.

“Hey.”

She turns, actress enough to keep her face relatively blank until she sees his expression. “Flynn asked for a meeting,” she confirms. “About half an hour ago.”

“Just you?”

“Yes. Dinner. At the _Golden Nugget._ ”

They both know what that can mean; that steely look in her eye and the set of her jaw is more than just determination to win them a new sponsor. Debbie has the same problem he does, he sometimes thinks: fear and sadness transmute themselves into anger remarkably easily. 

“Want me to walk you over?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know, but—”

“I’m not Ruth,” she says flatly. “I know how this business works.” She rolls her lips around her teeth, reassuring herself as much as him, he’s sure. “I can do this.”

And there he should probably leave it. But what kind of man does it make him, if he just nods and lets her walk right into the lion’s den? He has enough trouble meeting his own eyes in the mirror as it is. “Fuck. Look, I’m not trying to patronise you—” he tries.

“I know,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’ve got a whole… superhero fantasy about charging in and rescuing me if he turns out to be a creep. But it’s _never_ like that. You know? I can’t send out the fucking bat signal if I’m trapped in his hotel room.”

He narrows his eyes. “True. But it’s easier to hear you shouting if I’m in the same fucking building. C’mon. At least let’s see if it’s actually dinner.”

She sighs. Still unconvinced, he suspects, but arguing is making her late. “Fine. Just, don’t try and—”

“I won’t,” he says, and he means it. “If it’s legit, he’s all yours. Schmoozing with bourgeois executives isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.”

“No, you’re more the _Down and Out in Paris and London_ type, right?”

“Right,” he says.

They step outside onto the Strip together. 

* * *

He’s nursing a beer in the _Nugget_ bar when Rhonda, Jenny and Melrose enter, dressed for drinks. They don’t see him, passing through into the inner sanctum, where Flynn is presumably still holding court with Queen Debbie.

The feeling of dread in his stomach solidifies. This isn’t a sponsorship deal; it’s the charm offensive to ensure a non-hostile takeover. His healing hand itches. How fucking stupid are they? Do they think he’ll just lie down and die quietly? Well, fuck _that_. He’ll—

“Sam?” Ruth interrupts his growing rage, looking almost relieved. Dressed in her Beatnik outfit again. It’s an odd look, though it suits her better than her usual boyish sweaters and jeans. “They invited you too—?”

“Nope.”

She falters. “Oh. Well, there’s a drinks reception that Flynn askeda few of us along to. I’m sure that you’d be welcome—”

“Really? ‘Cos I’m not.”

“Fuck,” she says, soft. “Look, Sam. Just – just let me _talk_ to them. I'm sure there's still a job for you—”

“I don’t need your fucking help, Ruth.” He stands so quickly he knocks the bar stool over, making her flinch. “Alright? I’ll be fine. I always am. You should go and suck up to your new boss. Before one of the others makes a move on _your_  fucking job.”

“Sam, wait—!"

But he’s gone, into the neon night.

* * *

Vegas was there for him once before when everything felt like it was ending. There are plenty of other losers here he can find to commiserate with; plenty of pathways to heady oblivion.

The one he’s on now feels like an old familiar – empty bourbon bottles in a row; his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest after snorting a stupid amount of blow.

He reaches for the last bottle on the side and misses. Glass wobbles and falls; smashes on the floor. The pieces are all over the place, and there’s something so satisfying about the _smashing_ sound. He picks up a second bottle and throws it, hard, at the wall. Blinks at how _loud_ the noise is, as glass shatters everywhere. But it drowns out the howling noise in his head for a moment; _you fucking fuck-up, you stupid fucking idiot, you_ —

A third bottle goes the same way, followed by the desk chair. Screw therapy: this is the best he’s felt about himself in _years_.

The door to his room opens without warning, and for a second in his strobing vision the backlit silhouette is Flynn. Come to drive home his complete and utter failure. Or maybe it’s his father, ready to thrash a little more of the softness out of him. He gropes for another empty bottle, because fuck _that;_  he’s a grown man these days and—

“Sam? What are you—?”

He blinks. Not a man after all, stepping forward towards him, but a woman. “Carolyn? What the fuck do you—? I don’t want to—”

“Sam, it’s me. It’s _Ruth._ What – what _is_ this?”

“Stop,” he hears himself gasp, “stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Changing like that. It’s fucking terrifying. I can’t — I can’t—”

“Can’t _what_?”

 Breathe, he thinks, before the world goes dark around him. 


End file.
